The Leftovers

“I thought maybe you ditched me.”
    “Feeding the baby.” He held up the empty bottle for her inspection. “She took the whole thing.”
    “Huh,” she grunted, not even bothering to pretend that she cared.
    “I ran into some Barefoot People. A whole van full. They said there’s a big festival in the Poconos.”
    Christine said she’d talked to one of the girls in the bathroom. “She was all excited. Said it was the biggest party of the year.”
    “We could maybe check it out,” Tom said cautiously. “If you want. I think it’s on the way to Ohio.”
    “Whatever,” she said. “You’re the boss.”
    Her voice was dull, profoundly uninterested. Tom felt a sudden impulse to slap her across the face—not to hurt her, just to wake her up—and had to restrain himself until it passed.
    “Look,” he said. “I know you’re upset. But you shouldn’t take it out on me. I’m not the one who hurt you.”
    “I know,” she assured him. “I’m not mad at you.”
    Tom glanced at the baby. “What about your daughter? Why are you so mad at her?”
    Christine rubbed her stomach, a habit she’d developed during pregnancy. Her voice was barely audible.
    “I was supposed to have a son.”
    “Yeah,” he said. “But you didn’t.”
    She squinted past Tom, watching a family of blond people emerge from an Explorer across the way—two tall parents, three little kids, and a yellow Lab.
    “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
    “No,” he said. “That’s not the problem at all.”
    She laughed softly. It was a bitter, helpless sound.
    “What do you want from me?”
    “I want you to hold your daughter,” he said, stepping forward and pressing the baby into her arms before she had time to resist. “Just for a couple minutes, while I go to the men’s room. You think you can manage that?”
    Christine didn’t answer the question. She just glared at him, holding the baby as far away from her body as she could manage, as if it were the source of a troubling odor. He gave her an encouraging pat on the arm.
    “And think about those names,” he told her.
    *   *   *
    THE GAME calmed Kevin’s nerves, as he knew it would. He loved the way time slowed down on the baseball diamond, the way your focus narrowed down to the facts at hand: two down, bottom of the third, runners on first and second, a count of two balls and one strike.
    “All you, Gonzo!” he called from the outfield, not sure if his voice was loud enough to reach the ears of Bob Gonzalves, the Carpe Diem’s ace pitcher, or if Gonzo was even listening. He was one of those guys who got into the zone when he pitched, disappeared deep into his own head. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if the handful of women in the bleachers took off their shirts and started screaming out their phone numbers.
    Call me, Gonzo! Don’t make me beg!
    That was another thing Kevin loved about softball: the fact that you could be a middle-aged, beer-bellied construction estimator like Gonzo—a guy who could barely jog to first base without risking a heart attack—and still be a star, a slow-pitch wizard whose deceptive underhand tosses seemed to float like cream puffs toward the batter, only to plummet over the strike zone like a shot duck.
    “You da man!” Kevin chanted, pounding his mitt for emphasis. “Nothing to worry about!”
    He was standing out in left center with huge expanses of grass on either side of him. Only eight Carpe Diem guys had shown up, and the team had decided to play with one less outfielder than usual, rather than leave a gaping hole in the infield. That meant a lot of extra ground for Kevin to cover, with the coppery, low-hanging sun shining directly into his eyes.
    He didn’t mind; he was just happy to be there, doing the best possible thing a man could be doing on a beautiful evening like this. He’d made it to the field with just a few minutes to spare, saved by Jill’s timely appearance at twenty after five. With his daughter running interference, Kevin was able to pop inside and change into his uniform—white stretch pants and a pale blue T-shirt with Carpe Diem written in old-fashioned script above the image of a beer mug—then grab an apple and a bottle of water, all without even catching a glimpse of Aimee, let alone having to navigate any potentially awkward situations.
    The next pitch was way outside, bringing the count to three and one on Rick Sansome, a mediocre hitter at best. The last thing Gonzo wanted to do